Recently in Hawaiian food

Rest in peace, dear coconut palm.

That beautiful tree at left graced our driveway until the landlord realized it posed a liability problem. Coconuts bouncing down our long, steep hill could cause major damage by the time they crossed the street below at a hundred miles an hour. Rather than just pick the coconuts before they fell, his solution was to cut whole tree down. A bit like cutting your head off to avoid haircuts, if you ask me. On the bright side, we found ourselves in possession of three dozen young coconuts.

First, a quick coconut anatomy lesson. They are protected by two outer layers, a fibrous yellow-green husk around a hard brown shell. Inside the hard shell is a third layer, the meat, and then a central cavity containing watery coconut milk. The "milk" at this point is not nearly as thick or rich as the canned stuff; that takes a few additional steps after extraction. A Hawaiian riddle describes the coconut layers, ʻEkolu pā a loaʻa ka wai. He aha la ia? "Three walls to get to the water, what am I?" The answer of course is ka niu.

The younger a coconut is, the softer the meat will be, the more milky liquid it will have and the better it will be for drinking. As the coconut ages, the milk is absorbed, the meat firms and it grates more easily. Our batch was right in the middle, with plenty of milk and good flesh.

If the coconuts you buy at the supermarket are brown and hard with bits of fibrous hair, then the outer husk has already been removed. Let's assume for now that it hasn't and you're trying to figure out how to get this puppy open. These football-sized nuts are tough, able to bang around on ocean currents for thousands of miles before washing up on distant sandy shores to sprout. With proper technique though, they can be opened in just a few minutes.

Method One: A Sharp, Pointy Stick
The traditional Samoan method for husking secures a strong stick in the ground, pointy end up. They jam the coconut onto the spike and work it around until the husk falls away, then poke the stick into one of the eyes to drain the liquid. Sharp objects and I don't do well together, so this method would be a recipe for disaster. The only thing I can imagine piercing is my hand.

Method Two: A Sharp, Pointy Machete
The guys at the swap meet whittle away one end of the coconut with a machete until they can lop off the end and stick a straw in the top. Three bucks gets you one, ice cold. This method sounds promising, but again we have the sharp object problem. Whacking a hard, round object with a big knife takes practice. Besides, my machete is duller than a butter knife.

Method Three: The Best (Especially for People Who Hurt Themselves on Sharp, Pointy Things)
My preferred method for husking a coconut is far more primitive yet equally effective.

Grab a young coconut in two hands, stem end facing down. Think of something you're really pissed at, then lift the coconut to shoulder height and smack it down onto the driveway. Watch out because the nut can bounce unpredictably and leave a nasty bruise. Pick the nut up, turn it around 180 degrees so that the point is facing down this time. Embrace your inner rage and hurl it at the ground. Didn't that feel good? Repeat this process, smacking alternating ends of the coconut on the ground until the outer husk splits in several spots. Grab wedges of the outer husk and peel them away.

Now you should have a brown, hard-shelled coconut. We can do this the neat way, or the fun way. The neat way is to take a hacksaw and slice the coconut in half. Remembering my penchant for injuring myself with sharp implements, I wore heavy leather gloves while I sawed a few. It takes a while, so be patient. The only reason you'd want to hacksaw your fruit is to get two nice coconut shell bowls. (Dry them in the sun then sand them down.)

If you couldn't care less about pretty coconut bowls and just want the treasure inside, we can use the fun way: more banging. Whack the coconut against the ground again, just hard enough to crack it. Have a mixing bowl nearby and drain all the milk into it. You should then be able to work your fingers into the crack and pry the shell open. Congratulations, you're all done except for cleanup.

...now what? The milk can be strained, chilled and sipped, on it's own or mixed with other juices or rum. Scrape the meat out with a sturdy spoon and use it in recipes that call for grated coconut, or just break off chunks and chew on them. In the next few days I'll provide a recipe for thickening your own coconut milk suitable for cooking. The variations are endless.

It kinda doesn't matter what you do next. This is one of those times where the journey can be more fun than the destination... you just husked a coconut!

Tomorrow is (American) Thanksgiving. Every family has their own traditions and trimmings—my brother-in-law whips up a pot of gumbo, for instance—but a big turkey on the table is nearly universal. This recipe for Kālua-style turkey tastes authentic enough, but with the convenience of cooking in an oven.

Oven Kālua Turkey
Serves a small crowd.

• 12-20 lb. turkey (mine is 18 lbs. this time)
• 1/3 c. olive oil
• 2-3 T. coarse sea salt
• 2 t. liquid smoke
• 18 (or so) ti leaves. I didn’t have enough, so used banana leaves as well

Completely thaw turkey, remove necks and gibblets then wash the entire carcass thoroughly inside and out. Line a large roasting pan with about half of the ti leaves, overlapping then slightly so that the pan is completely blanketed. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Rub the turkey inside and out with the olive oil, then the sea salt then the liquid smoke. Place the bird in the roasting pan, breast side up.
 

Cover the turkey with the remaining ti leaves. If you can, tuck the leaves under the bird so that it is fully wrapped. If your leaves are young and small like mine, just do your best to overlap and get complete coverage. Cover the roasting pan with a double layer of aluminum foil and crimp the edges tightly so that it is as airtight as reasonably possible. Cook for six hours.

After six long, long hours have elapsed, remove the turkey, uncover, and let cool until it can be handled. The meat should literally be falling off the bone. Shred the meat with two forks then drizzle with pan juices. Serve with rice and a table full of trimmings.

Happy Thanksgiving!

This recipe is so simple it's hardly mentioning, yet it's also the second most popular way to eat kālua pig. The most popular is to sneak little bits as the pig is fresh from the pit (or crockpot).

Besides tasting great, mixing kālua pig with cabbage is a great way to stretch the meat across multiple meals. The first night I serve the pig unadorned. The second night, with cabbage. After that I either freeze the remainder or start using it in salads, quesadillas, etc.

Kalua Pig and Cabbage

• 2 T. vegetable oil
• 1 head cabbage, thinly sliced
• several cups leftover kālua pig (see recipe)

Heat the oil in a large skillet. When hot, add the sliced cabbage and stir fry for a few minutes until it softens but isn't fully cooked. Stir in the pork along with its juices. Cover and simmer 3-4 minutes until the cabbage is no longer crunchy.

Traditional imu kālua puaʻa involves a big pit filled with burning kiawe wood, red-hot rocks, wet banana stumps, layers of ti leaves and a whole pig. Yes, the result is indescribably delicious, but it's not the kind of meal people turn to at the end of a long workday.

Crock pot kālua pig approximates the imu kālua flavors but with a fraction of the effort. Start this early in the day and just leave it until dinnertime.

Crock Pot Kālua Pig
Serves 6-8

• 4-5 lb. pork butt, preferably bone-in
• 1 T. Hawaiian salt
• 1/2 T. liquid smoke
• 3-4 ti leaves
• 1 c. water

The ideal pork butt for this recipe is well-marbled and bone-in for maximum flavor and moisture. Rub the butt with salt, dribble with liquid smoke then wrap it in several layers of ti leaves. Besides helping to steam the meat, ti leaves provide a subtle flavor that shouldn't be skipped. If ti is not available, substitute banana leaves.

Place the wrapped butt in a crock pot and pour the cup of water around it. The water is there primarily to prevent scorching until the meat cooks down enough to render its own juices. Cook on low for at least 5-6 hours but up to all day.

When cooking is complete, remove the butt, reserve juices and discard the leaves. Let the meat rest for a few minutes. When cool enough to handle, shred with two forks. Pour reserved liquid over the shredded meat and serve.

Assuming you have any leftover at the end of the night, kālua pig freezes well.

This post is part of my long-running Hawaiian luau series.

Related:
→ Closer to imu cooking, Pomai makes his kalua pig on the grill.
→ Reid, Kirk and Kristin all provide oven roasted recipes, each slightly different from the others.
→ My kālua pig and cabbage recipe is ideal for any leftovers.
→ Kālua pig is versatile, like in this Kalua Pork Salad with Pineapple Salsa recipe at HawaiiDiner

I'm grateful for modern conveniences.

In old Hawaii, families would grate starchy arrowroot (pia) into a bowl of water, rinsing it as many times as needed until it lost all bitterness. The remaining pulp was strained, mixed with coconut milk, carefully wrapped in ti leaves then steamed in an imu. A few hours later, out came haupia.

Between you and me, that's too much work. I'm all about learning how to do things from scratch, but even I gotta draw the line somewhere.

These days, I just grab a bag of coconut milk from the freezer, mix in cornstarch and sugar then cook until it thickens. Total time: maybe 15 minutes.

I've tested this recipe with both arrowroot powder and cornstarch and cornstarch is the consistent winner. The arrowroot powder I've found in health food stores or online is the harsher West Indian variety, whose bitter edge clashes with the silky sweetness of haupia. Hawaiian arrowroot is apparently mellower... and completely unavailable for purchase.

Haupia
Makes 16 one inch squares

• 12 oz. coconut (frozen preferred, but canned works well too)
• 1/2 c. sugar
• 1/3 cup + 1T cornstarch
• 3/4 c. cold water

Combine the coconut milk and sugar in an appropriately sized saucepan and bring to a boil. Combine water and starch separately then mix slowly into the hot pot. The key here is to prevent the cornstarch from clumping. Slow and smooth.

Stir constantly to a "light trace," where dragging a wooden spoon across the surface leaves a trail that doesn't immediately collapse on itself. Pour immediately into an 8x8 inch pan and allow to cool to room temperature before cutting into squares.

See how easy that was (especially without all the grating, rinsing, and digging an earthen oven in the backyard)?

This post is part of my long-running Hawaiian luau series.

Often when I'm in the mood for fish, I head to the market not knowing specifically what I'll buy. Instead, I wait to be inspired by what looks freshest. Yesterday afternoon, Tamashiro's Fish Market had a big catch of some of the prettiest uhu I've seen--almost too pretty to eat.

Almost, but not quite.

Also known as parrotfish, uhu are best known for their tough teeth, used to grind algae off coral reefs. Those nice Waikiki beaches? Uhu are partly to thank. These iridescent beauties produce prodigious amounts of sand from chewing on coral.

Uhu are tender fleshed, with a mildly bitter flavor, suitable for cooking whole, or in the case of larger specimens, filleting. As a point of interest, uhu are also capable of spontaneously changing gender, not that there's anything wrong with that.

I wasn't sure how to cook uhu, but Ben behind the Tamshiro counter recited this recipe from memory. "Get some mayonnaise, onions, lop cheong, tomato. Stuff 'em inside, wrap in foil and bake. No need anything on the outside." His version didn't specify quantities or baking time, but Junko and I improvised.

Before...

...After

Local-style Baked Uhu

• 4-5 lb. whole uhu (parrotfish), gutted and scaled
• salt and pepper
• 3/4 c. mayonnaise
• 2 Roma tomatoes, diced
• 1 medium onions, diced
• 3 lop cheong, sliced

Rinse the ulu thoroughly, inside and out. Pat dry then salt and pepper the skin and cavity. Spread mayonnaise inside and out, then stuff the cavity with the tomatoes, onions and lop cheong. If you have extra stuffing, lay it on top then seal the fish in aluminum foil and bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes to an hour. The fish is done when flesh closest to the spine has just changed from translucent to white. Don't overcook.

To serve, place the whole fish on a platter. Use a large, flat spoon to scoop off portions of the body for each person. Watch out for toothpick-sized bones. When one side of the fish is clean, flip it over and serve the other side.

Lomi Lomi Salmon

As far back as we have records, Hawaiians have been combining fresh fish with a bit of salt, tomato and onion, massaging (lomi lomi) them together to bring out the flavors. When the first whaler ships brought salted salmon from the Pacific Northwest in the 1830s, it was adopted as a stand-in for local fish. Today, salmon is the most popular choice for this technique and has become a staple at luaus.

Many have said that chicken long rice is an acquired taste but I have to think they're confusing taste with texture. That first slurp can be disconcerting as it slips playfully down. Then the subtle warmth of chicken, ginger and onion lingers comfortingly. The mild flavors are familiar to most of us, combined in a way that quickly earns our love.

Although it has become a staple of luaus today, chicken long rice is actually a Cantonese contribution, arriving sometime after the first wave of Chinese immigrants to Hawaii in the late 18th century. Since that time it has become a local favorite, making regular appearances at not only luaus, but countless restaurants and plate lunch wagons. A nice benefit of this dish is that it makes a perfect potluck contribution: it's affordable in large quantities, tastes good even when not piping hot and is well-loved.

Traditionally, chicken long rice uses just chicken, onions, noodles and salt. When I'm seeking more variety, I look to Sam Choy's version in Sam Choy: Cooking From the Heart which adds carrot, celery, shiitake mushrooms and onion. This latter preparation makes for a heartier dish, more suitable for use as a main course.

Chicken Long Rice
Serves 12

• 3 lbs. chicken thighs, skin and fat removed
• 1 inch thumb of fresh ginger, peeled and minced
• 4 oz. bean-thread noodles, aka cellophane noodles, aka "long rice"
• 12 dried shiitake mushrooms (optional, non-traditional)
• 1 medium carrot, julienned (optional, non-traditional)
• 2 small stalks celery, sliced very thin (optional, non-traditional)
• 1 small yellow onion, minced (optional, non-traditional)
• 6 green onions, cut into 1 inch lengths
• sea salt, to taste

Prep work
Submerge the chicken and ginger in approximately four cups water and simmer for one hour. Some people prefer to smash the ginger but basically leave it intact. Overlooking their violent tendencies for the moment, I prefer delicate mincing to smashing because more ginger infuses into the broth.

While the chicken simmers, soak shiitake mushrooms and long rice noodles in separate bowls of warm water for at least 20 minutes. After soaking, discard mushroom stems, thinly slice caps and set aside. Cut noodles into three inch lengths with a pair of scissors and set aside. Prep carrots, celery and green onions... set aside.

Remove the chicken, reserving broth, and let cool slightly. Remove chicken bones and discard. Cut the chicken meat into rough cubes and set aside. By now, you should have a small forest of bowls, each brimming with prepped ingredients that have been "set aside." Enough prep, let's assemble.

Assembly
Taste the broth and lightly salt to taste. Bring the broth back to a simmer, add the mushrooms, carrots, celery and onion if you're including them then simmer for five minutes. Add chicken, long rice and green onions. Simmer for 3-4 minutes until the long rice turns translucent. Don't overcook, or you'll end up with gelatinous sludge! Most of the broth will have been absorbed, but you want a little to remain. Chicken long rice is typically served from a bowl or tray that can contain any liquid, but is suitable for scooping generously onto flat plates.

This post is part of my Hawaiian Luau series.

Limu salad is the perfect food for the health conscious, ecosystem-aware gourmet.. Seaweed is high in high in iron and other vitamins while being very low in fat. Plus, every time you eat invasive seaweed, you're consuming an over-abundant resource and helping to curtail its spread. Eat as much as you want, knowing that you're caring for both the coral reefs and your own body. Now doesn't that make you feel all warm and fuzzy?

The key to this salad is the freshness of the ingredients. Seaweed breaks down very quickly, so you'll want to get the very best you can. Go to the ocean yourself and grab an armful. The best edible seaweeds only grow down to a depth of about 20 feet, so you shouldn't have to go too far.

Run--don't walk--back to your prep area. If you trip and fall down, start over, because you'll already have taken too long. I said fresh!

Limu Salad
Serves about 8.

• 1/3 c. soy sauce
• 1/3 c. cider vinegar
• 1 T. Sriracha hot sauce (optional, but tasty)
• 1.5 lbs. Gracilaria salicornia (substitute ogo or limu manauea, but you don't get as much credit for helping the reefs), well-rinsed and coarsely chopped
• 2 tomatoes, diced
• 1 Maui onion, diced
• 1 cucumber, diced

Start a big pot of water boiling. While it is coming up to temp, mix the soy sauce, cider vinegar and hot sauce in a small bowl and set aside. Drop the limu in the boiling water and blanch it for one to two minutes, or until it turns bright green. It'll darken up again when you add the sauce, but the blanching softens the crunch nicely, and the bright green color allows you to easily spot critters that may not have rinsed off.

Toss together the tomatoes, onion, cucumber and tomatoes then pour the sauce mixture over top. Refrigerate for at least 30 minutes. This doesn't count against the freshness countdown, because we're now allowing the flavors to intermingle together in one big lovefest of flavor. If that's not fresh, I don't what else you'd call it.

Enjoy!

This recipe is my attempt to recreate a salad at a recent He`eia Fish Pond work day. If it tastes good, they get the credit. If you hate it, blame me.

Yesterday I described my recipe for laulau. Just between you and I, that post was getting long enough already and I hadn't gotten to the detailed explanation for how to wrap your laulau for steaming. Too many other laulau recipes skim over this step, but we want to make sure we do it justice, eh? The wrapping is the part of the process that benefits the most from gleaning the wisdom of all the laulau makers that have come before us.

Described below are two basic methods I've been taught for wrapping laulau, which I've arbitrarily named package style and ho'okupu style. I have no idea if other people call them by other names, but I suspect it's usually just, "making laulau." If you haven't already, you'll want to read the laulau recipe. The images below aren't meant to stand apart from the main recipe.

Package style

The package style of wrapping laulau appeals to the organized and tidy side of my personality. Each laulau is well-contained with no leakage through gaps in the wrapping. The trick of splitting a single stem to use as two ties is pretty darn clever, and the resulting packages take a minimum of space in my steamer. It is effective and elegant.

Picking up where the recipe left off...

Stack four to five lu`au leaves on a flat surface, with leaf tips pointing in different directions. Place a piece of pork in the center of the leaf stack, and then a slice of fish on top. If you've decided to use the reserved lu`au stems, add a tablespoon of diced stems.

Fold the lu`au leaf to enclose the bundle, much like you would enclose a burrito or wrap.

Lay a ti leaf on your work surface and place the lua`au bundle at the tip end. It doesn't matter much if the ti leaf is shiny side up or down.

Roll the lu`au bundle from the tip end of the ti leaf to the stem end, keeping it as tightly bundled as possible. Split the stem lengthwise all the way up to where it joins the main portion of the leaf. Pull the two stem lengths around the bundle, cinch them tight, then tie them together to hold the bundle in place.

Place the tied bundle at the tip end of a second ti leaf, then roll it tightly from tip to stem end.

Split the stem of the outer leaf all the way up to where it joins the main portion of the leaf and use it to tie off the bundle. You now have a neat laulau package, ready for steaming. Return to the main recipe.

Ho'okupu style

To ho`okupu is to pay a tribute to an honored person by giving a ceremonial gift. The gifts are traditionally wrapped in a ti leaf bundle that looks essentially identical to this laulau wrapping method. Although a h`okupu style for wrapping laulau is more prone to leak through gaps between the leaves and takes more space in the steamer, the resulting packages make for a better show. They appeal to the artist side of me.

Picking up where the recipe left off...

Stack four to five lu`au leaves on a flat surface, with leaf tips pointing in different directions. Place a piece of pork in the center of the leaf stack, and then a slice of fish on top. If you've decided to use the reserved lu`au stems, add a tablespoon of diced stems.

Fold the lu`au leaf to enclose the bundle, much like you would enclose a burrito or wrap.

Place the lu`au bundle in the middle of a ti leaf and bring the two ends of the ti leaf together over the top.

Add a second ti leaf, so that the two ti leaves form a "t" shape under the lu`au, and gather the ends of the ti leaves together at the top of the bundle.

Make sure the ti leaves are gathered as tightly as you can, with no gaps between the leaves where lu`au can leak out. If you have gaps, either reposition the leaves, or add a third leaf for additional coverage. Take the stem of one leaf and hook it around your thumb (to hold its position) then pull it around the gathered leaves.

Tie the stem off securely with the stem of another leaf. You now have a neat laulau package, ready for steaming. Return to the main recipe.

There you go, two different laulau wrapping techniques!

Whichever wrapping method you choose, just relax and have fun with it. If you pay attention to your ingredients and "listen" to how they respond to rolling, cinching and tying, I'm confident the end result will be pono. And delicious. Good luck!

There are few dishes at a pā'ina that get people as excited as a big platter of laulau, those savory bundles of pork and fish nestled in taro leaves. We do love our laulau. Part of the excitement comes from a mistaken impression that preparing laulau is a complicated process, and must therefore be saved only for special occasions. That couldn't be further from the truth!. While you won't be assembling laulau every night of the week, they're easy enough that you can make them for more than just birthdays and graduations. The preparation of the inside ingredients is dead simple, and if you can wrap a gift, you can bundle a laulau for steaming.

No good records exist documenting the culinary origins of laulau, but the consensus is that it pre-dates Western contact. Early laulau contained pork and local fish rubbed with salt, wrapped in young taro leaves called lu`au. When the whaling industry arrived in force, they brought salted butterfish with them and it quickly became the "traditional" fish to use in laulau. The meat, fish and lu`au bundles were carefully wrapped in ti leaves then baked in an imu. Contemporary laulau remains essentially unchanged. If you order a Hawaiian plate lunch place, the laulau still contains pork, butterfish and lu`au. Common variations on the theme use chicken in place of pork, omit the butterfish, or add onions and other vegetables. For convenience, most laulau today are steamed on the stovetop rather than in an imu.

The recipe below makes 12 laulau. You can make far fewer of course, but once you setup an assembly line, the difference between making four and twelve is negligible. Leftover laulau (ha! as if...) can be frozen in their entirety and reheated on another day. Finally, laulau is a fantastic communal cooking event. Invite a friend or two over to help assemble!

Laulau
Prep time: less than 30 minutes
Cooking time: 4 hours!
Special equipment: a steamer large enough to easily accomodate a dozen laulau

• about 50 lu`au leaves
• 24 to 30 ti leaves
• 3 lbs. pork shoulder or butt. Don't trim any fat!
• 1.5 lbs. salted butterfish
• 2 T Hawaiian salt

Notes on the ingredients:

• Fresh spinach may be substituted for lu`au leaves, but reduce the cooking time to 90 minutes if you do. The flavor of spinach is similar enough, but not identical to lu`au.
• Banana leaves or even corn husks may be substituted for ti leaves.
• Salted (not smoked) salmon or cod may be used in place of salted butterfish. If all else fails, use fresh butterfish, salmon or cod, but add 1/3 t. extra Hawaiian salt per laulau.
• Kosher salt may be used in place of Hawaiian salt
• On the one hand, please feel free to substitute as needed. On the other hand, it is well worth a little extra effort to stick as close to the traditional preparation as is feasible. If you substitute everything, is it still laulau?

First, start with all your prep work. Wash the ti and lu`au leaves. Prepare your ti leaves, then set them aside. Remove the center stem and fibrous veins from each lu`au leaf. If you have tender, young lu`au, you may be fine leaving the veins intact. Optionally, dice and reserve the lu`au stems to use in the laulau.

Cut the pork into 12 pieces and rub with salt. Cut the fish into 12 pieces. Start heating a large steamer with water in the bottom. At this point, your prep work is done. Easy so far, eh?

Stack four to five lu`au leaves on a flat surface, with leaf tips pointing in different directions. Place a piece of pork in the center of the leaf stack, and then a slice of fish on top. If you've decided to use the reserved lu`au stems, add a tablespoon of diced stems. Fold the lu`au leaf to enclose the bundle, much like you would enclose a burrito or wrap.

You now need to choose a wrapping method, package style or Ho`okupu style. Wrap each laulau bundle in the style of your choosing, then place them in the steamer, stacking if necessary. Make sure to leave spaces between the laulau so that the steam can reach everywhere! Steam for four hours.

I like to present the laulau still wrapped on a large platter and allow the guests to open their own bundles, discarding the outer ti leaves and eating everything else. It's messier at the table to do it this way, but when that first wave of lu`au smell rises from a newly opened laulau, the excitement on people's faces is completely worth it.

Other good articles about laulau:
→ Laulau Legacy The Honolulu Star-Bulletin talks about making laulau, and a few of the possible variations.
→ Laulau 'Onokinegrindz scales his laulau recipe down to serve two.
→ Wow, Lau Lau! Mmm-yoso gets excited when laulau arrives through the mail.
→ For the love of laulau Another Star-Bulletin article about possible laulau variations. Sadly, no recipes included here.

This post is part of my Hawaiian luau series.

The exact ingredients for this recipe aren't vital, but the technique is a solid addition to your repertoire. The ti leaves trap the juices inside, steaming the fish as it bakes. When you cut them open at the end to reveal the whole fish, your guests are sure to be impressed.

• 1.5 lb whole `ehu, or whatever fish catches your eye
• Hawaiian salt or sea salt
• scant 1/4 c. mayonnaise
• 1/4 c. crab meat (optional)
• thumb-sized knob of ginger, cut into matchsticks
• 4-5 garlic chive flowers, or substitute scallions, cut into 1 inch lengths
• 4 ti leaves

The original inspiration for this recipe is "Baked Local Boy Mahimahi In Ti Leaves" found in Sam Choy: Cooking from the Heart. I've changed just about everything though, including many of the ingredients, the method of ti leaf wrapping and the fish itself. Feel free to improvise as well. The recipe above serves 2-3 people.

Let's get down to business. Clean and wash your fish thoroughly, then pat dry with paper towels. Rub the fish inside and out with the salt, then coat the outside of the fish with the mayonnaise. (This helps make it moist.)

Lay a single ti leaf down on your work surface, with the stem pointing to your right. Lay the mayo smeared fish on the leaf, then distribute the shredded crab across the top. Scatter the ginger and chives on top of the crab.

Take a second leaf and lay it over the fish in the opposite orientation, with the stem pointing to your left.

Take a third leaf and wrap it like a corkscrew around the fish, curling the first two leaves around the fish as you do, so that they trap any liquids as it cooks.

Take the final leaf and corkscrew it around in the opposite direction. You shouldn't see any gaps between the leaves. Use an additional leaf or two if your fish is large. Finally, use the stems to cinch the ends tight, wrapping them around and tying them off.

Place the ti leaf bundle on a cookie sheet and bake at 350 degrees for about 30 minutes, or until the fish has just barely lost its translucence. I realize that's impossible to check while the fish is wrapped, so start at thirty minutes and just verify that it's cooked when you pull it out.

To serve, cut open the ti leaves and allow your guests to pull directly from the whole fish. The ti leaf bundle looks great, and they make it easier to flip the fish when the top side has had most of the meat removed.

Let's say you've read up on the amazing utility and versatility of ti leaves and are now itching to get your hands on some for a recipe. That's when it strikes you--you've never seen ti leaves for sale at the local supermarket.

The best way to get ti leaves is local style: from a friend or "uncle." They grow in people's yards or--and you didn't hear this from me--along the sides of some public roads and parks. (Mālama the plants! Don't take too much.) Look for large, outer leaves, free from major blemishes and with a healthy green color. Grab the stem near where it joins the trunk and pull downwards. Never yank sideways or upwards as this can break the plant trunk.

Most florists will also have ti leaves on hand to sell, already cleaned and ready. It's not as satistfying to buy leaves from the florist, but sometimes convenience wins out. If you live in a different state, don't worry! Banana leaves can be substituted for ti leaves without adverse effects. Check the freezer case of larger Asian supermarkets for bundles of frozen banana leaves.

Now that you have a handful of ti leaves, we need to get them ready for use. It's easiest to wash them with the stem still intact. The stems tend to be dirty and often harbor ants. Once they're all clean, we're going to "de-bone" them to make them more pliable.

Pick up a leaf (lā`i) and hold it in front of you, tip (wēlau) towards the sky and shiny side facing away. Hold your fingers against the bone (`iwi) of the leaf about 1/3 of the way up from the stem (kumu), from the back of the leaf. This sounds confusing, but look at the position of my hands in the photo and imagine where the index fingers are pressing.

Holding the leaf

Bend the leaf forward towards you to crease the bone then bend it sharply away, pushing with your fingers against the bone to cause it to snap and separate from the leaf, trying not to break through the leaf. Run your fingers down the shiny side of the bone towards the stem to cause it to separate from the leaf. It's normal to ruin a few leaves as you practice, but you'll get the knack of it.

Removing the bone

Always prep a few more leaves than you need, because a few will inevitably split or tear along the way. If you don't need every single leaf for your recipe, use the remainders as table decorations or as bedding on a serving platter. If you're not going to use your leaves right away, you can freeze them for later.

Next up: recipes for laulau and baked fish wrapped in ti leaves.

This post is a continuation of my long-neglected Hawaiian luau series.

Photo courtesy of Rubber Slippers in Italy.

I made sweet potato and haupia pie for a friend's housewarming party last night, and it was so popular with everyone that the hostess asked me to share the recipe with her. Seriously, people were threatening each other over this pie, completely bypassing the main dinner to make sure they got a piece. I had no idea people would get so crazy over a pie. I'll share the recipe with you, but use it wisely and only under adult supervision.

Working its way into every aspect of traditional Hawaiian life and wrapping each in big, green glossiness, the ti plant is a mainstay of Hawaiian life and cooking.

In traditional Hawaiian culture, the ti plant (cordyline fruticosa or ki in Hawaiian) is believed to have powers as a protection against psychic evil. It was often used as a ceremonial symbol of "The Law" standing firm in the face of evil. Leaves would be rubbed or slapped against people or homes to purify them. Unlike most native traditional Hawaiian plants, ti is not associated with any particular god, but is instead used in religious ceremonies for a whole pantheon of dieties.

Even today, groves of ti plants are often planted near houses, both in the belief that they would bring protection and good luck, but also for their utilitarian value. The mature, glossy leaves grow to six inches wide and several feet long with a strong and flexible central vein. Besides serving as amazingly versatile packaging, using the attached stem as a tie, the leaves had many practical uses. Strung along a length of rope and wrapped around the waist, ti leaves create a popular variety of hula skirt. Knotted and woven together they serve as sandals for walking across rough volcanic paths. In the absence of pili grass, they can be used as thatch for one's hut. Stems were woven together for a quick and simple rope. The ti leaf also has medicinal properties as a laxative. There's an old Hawaiian saying, 'Ai ke ki, ki, ki: a hi, hi, hi!. I could go on and on, but I think you get the idea: ti leaves are versatile.

This all has relevance to food-- I just took my time getting around to it. In old Hawaii the ti root was steamed in an imu then chewed like sugar cane. In times of famine, that same steamed root would be mashed, watered down and drunk. If they only resorted to this in times of famine, I think we can imagine how poor it tastes,

The root could also be brewed into a potent liquor called ʻōkolehao that became popular among visiting whaling ships. Although I've heard third party reports of this practice continuing today, no one I've found has personal experience. Brewing spirits from ti root could be a dying art, or it could be so foul that you'd only attempt it if you were a crazy haole sailor or dying of starvation.

Today, the long, broad leaves of the ti plant are used to enclose food prior to steaming or baking in an imu. They can also be used as a bedding during presentation, or as a purely utilitarian way to wrap and carry ingredients.

Next up: acquiring ti leaves for use in cooking, then a laulau recipe wrapped in ti leaves.

This post is part of my Hawaiian luau series, and was updated January 2006 based on readers comments below and August 2007 as I learned the name for the ti-based alcohol.

Chicken luau won't win any prizes for presentation. It has all the visual appeal of pig slop (or worse), but you'll also notice it's one of the first pots to be scraped clean at a pa'ina. The sweetness of coconut and taro, combined with savory chicken make this one a local favorite. The dish takes its name from the Hawaiian word lū'au, describing the young taro leaves that make the bulk of the recipe.

• 3 lbs. taro leaves
• 8 c. water
• 1 t. sea salt
• 3 T. unsalted butter
• 2 medium onions, coarsely chopped
• 2 lb boneless/skinless chicken breasts or thighs, cubed
• 2 c. coconut milk
• 1 c. chicken broth

Remove the taro stems and any tough veins. Hold your hand in front of you. If your taro leaves are larger than your outstretched fingers, chop them into smaller pieces. Bring the salt and water to boil, then add the chopped taro leaves and cook for one hour, stirring occasionally. Don't rush this step! Taro contains calcium oxalate crystals which can cause a fiberglass like irritation in the mouth and throat unless cooked adequately. Drain the taro and lightly squeeze to remove excess water.

Meanwhile, melt the butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Saute the chopped onion until translucent but not browned, about five minutes. Add the chicken and cook another three to four minutes to lightly brown. Finally, add the coconut milk, chicken broth and cooked taro. Simmer gently for fifteen minutes until the chicken is fully cooked. Salt to taste, although in my experience you may not need more. Serve over rice.

Substitutions: You can use spinach in place of the taro, although this changes the flavor somewhat. If you use spinach, don't precook, but instead add it fresh when you add the coconut milk and broth. Another very popular option is to use squid or octopus in place of the chicken.

Serves eight to ten as a hearty side dish.

This post is part of my Hawaiian luau series.

Poke has a fond space reserved for itself in the hearts of most Hawaiians.

Stop. Let's try that pronunciation again because I heard you mentally pronounce poke as the English word "poke." The title and subject of this post is instead the ubiquitous island dish pronounced POH-kay. POH-keh. Say it one more time, POH-keh.

According to the standard Hawaiian dictionary, poke means "to slice, cut crosswise into pieces." That describes the preparation well enough. Poke is usually (but not always!) raw seafood sliced then dressed with sauces or spices. If you're having a hard time imagining what that might be like, imagine a kind of sushi salad. Most commonly, poke is made with 'ahi or aku (both varieties of tuna), octopus, squid, mussels or any of hundreds of other kinds of seafood. People have also used beef, tofu, lamb and just about everything else in dishes they've still called "poke."

Topher asked a good question in response to yesterday's post on the Hawaiian Luau, "As I understand it, pigs were brought to the islands relatively recently, yet they're the core of a luau. What did they have before that?"

I'd always thought that the earliest arrivals from Polynesia had brought pigs with them, and yet I remember hearing that Captain Cook traded pigs to the Hawaiians when the Western world arrived in 1799. Did Hawaiians have pigs first, or did Captain Cook trade pigs to the Hawaiians?

The answer is "both." The earliest Polynesian canoes probably didn't have pigs along for the ride; the trip across unknown oceans was too long and uncertain to risk bringing livestock. According to Islands in a Far Sea: Nature and Man in Hawaii, it was on later voyages that they brought pigs, dogs and inadvertantly, rats, once the route was known. These first island pigs were a Polynesian variety, much smaller than typical European pigs.

When Captain Cook "discovered" Hawaii in 1778, he received several of these Polynesian pigs in trade, noting at one point, "we could seldom get any above fifty or sixty pounds in weight." On another trip, Captain Cook presented to inhabitants of Niihau the first European pigs in Hawaii. Within about fifty years, the larger pigs had gone feral and wild, overcoming and replacing the smaller Polynesian variety.

Back to Topher's original question, pigs have been an important part of Hawaii and Hawaiian feasting for a long, long time. Although families today may sometimes cook turkey in place of pig in their imu, especially for Thanksgiving, all evidence points to pig as the traditional centerpiece of the luau celebration.

In old Hawaii, large multi-day feasts called ʻahaʻaina were held to celebrate weddings, the arrival of honored guests and other important events. They were times to honor the gods and to share one's good fortune generously with friends and family. What better way to celebrate than with loads of food, singing and talking story. It wasn't until the last 150 years that these special events came to be called luʻaus, after the Hawaiian word for the young taro leaves incorporated into many traditional dishes.

Today, luaus fall into two general categories. There are the lavish buffet lines orchestrated for visiting tourists, usually with after-dinner hula dancing / singing / fire juggling, and then there are private family luaus. The latter would look like potlucks to many mainlanders, with family and friends all partipicating in the food preparation duties. Both types of luaus share in common the quintessential luau food: puaʻa kālua, a whole pig baked in an underground "oven."

Preparation of puaʻa kālua begins early in the day when a pit is dug in the earth large enough to hold an entire pig. The bottom of the pit is lined with volcanic rocks, and blazing wood fire is built on top. When the rocks are red hot, wet banana or ti leaves are placed over the rocks, the pig is laid on top, and more leaves are placed all around. The pit is re-filled with dirt and left to cook for nearly half a day before the pig is removed and served.

Other traditional luʻau dishes alongside puaʻa kālua include some combination of poi, poke, lomi lomi salmon, lau lau, haupia, breadfruit, chicken luʻau, sweet potato, chicken long rice and seasonal fruits. There is never a shortage of amazing food at a luʻau.

I recently made my best attempt to cook a scaled-down luau feast when family from the mainland came for a visit. Understandably, I had to make a few concessions, but the end results taste authentic. (I can't begin to imagine our landlord's wrath at a smoldering puaʻa kālua pit in our yard!) This post marks the beginning of a sporadic series describing the recipes I prepared, nearly all of which could easily be made even outside the islands.

Other posts in this series:

• Poke
• Chicken Luau
• Ti Plants: Background
• Ti Leaf Preparation
• Laulau
• Kālua Pig
• Chicken Long Rice
• Lomi Lomi Salmon
• Haupia